


A Cat Who Likes Lilac and Gooseberries

by spiritualturtle



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, fem!reader - Freeform, not sure on that one, x Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritualturtle/pseuds/spiritualturtle
Summary: There are two versions of this. This is the x fem!reader version. Please see other works for x OC version.You were a simple woman, the pest management of White Orchard until a certain white wolf decided to drop by. If only you had known of the whirlwind of a world you would be dragged through.The reader has quite a specific character in mind, it is explained as best as possible. My apologies
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Reader, minor - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. Cats and Dogs Never Get Along

**Author's Note:**

> Hi All! This is my first attempt at an x reader, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Y/N - your name  
> H/N - horse name  
> H/C - horse coat colour

With a breath ladened with frost, a thick, woollen cloak adorning cold shoulders and fur line gloves protecting fingers from possible frostbite. Even the warmth of a horse made little to no difference. To say it was cold outside was an understatement. Winter was never easy for anyone, aside from maybe nobles who could afford all the food and warmth they could ever dream of. White Orchard was far from well off, comprising of farmers and tradesmen, all of which could barely feed themselves let alone their families over the winter period. Cattle were thin, sheep were stripped of their wool. Horses were not in the best of shape, however, it seemed as though they cared for more than any other livestock. They were kept under cover where possible, with as much hay as their owner could give. Unlike the cattle and sheep, who were knee-deep in mud and all they had was the waterlogged straw. A horse had more use than meat and wool, they were a mode of transportation, they helped till the fields, they even brought in money if they were bred for racing. For a witcher, a horse was a best friend. Athletic, well built, well mannered. Stallions weren’t an option, whilst yes they should be well mannered, it would take many unnecessary hours to train them. Mares were okay, however, when in season it was like trying to ride a dragon. That is why you have a preference for geldings, a horse who was once a stallion. They were quiet and well mannered. Your gelding was H/C in colour of an unknown breed, but either way, he meant the world to you, pedigree or not. His name was H/N. 

Now, as for you. You were a witcher, a feline to be exact. However, you weren’t one of those who had the changed mutagen, no. You were one of the original mutagen, emotionless. The school of the cat was one of the few that trained women into becoming witchers, mostly due to the mutagen process. It was different from that of the wolf, feline witchers were lithe and agile, aiming for more precise hits rather than just going for it and hoping for the best. Their attacks were calculated and deliberate. Ever since the culling of the keep in Stygga, you were left to roam the continent. You weren’t there for the siege, so you avoided death on that behalf. Ever since then, you had never come across any other feline witcher. It wasn’t too much of a hassle, you were more than content in your small, bungalow type house and taking the odd monster contract here and there. That’s what set you apart from other feline witchers, you only killed monsters. You never found pleasure in killing humans, it was far less rewarding. Watching a large beast tumble to the ground as its last breath leaves its flooded lungs, it makes the adrenaline rush all the more worth it. 

It was always the same, however, it was never boring. You exhaled deeply from your nose, your booted foot standing on the chest of a wild dog as you effortlessly pulled out the silver sword that had embedded itself into the sternum of the creature. It was like a ragdoll, a bloodied, dead ragdoll. The small town - if one could call it that - had been having a problem with wild dogs attacking livestock, so it was only a given that you would assist in ridding of the pest problem. Even though you would take care of the beasties that showed up in the neighbouring areas, the townsfolk didn’t particularly like you. They glared and scowled for the most part, but that’s just how it was, being a witcher. You weren’t exactly welcome anywhere but your home and the local inn, where the innkeeper was thankful that whenever you trod your boots through the small establishment, they were always clean. Not only that, the ruckus was kept at a minimum when you were there. 

After setting the corpse of the wild dog on fire, you made your way towards the inn, using one of the water troughs on your way to wash your hands, face and boots. Something felt off, your stomach churned as you sensed an unusual presence. You glanced over at the inn, a chestnut mare was hitched to the rail. You hadn’t seen that horse here before, and it was uncommon for travellers to pass through. So, to quell your curiosity, you briskly walked over to the inn, sheathing your sword in the process. 

The door groaned its familiar tone as you pushed it open almost warily, your eyes darting around the inn until they landed on an unfamiliar person. White hair, an ugly scar and slitted pupils. His head was down, buried into a hand of gwent cards. A wolf medallion hung from his neck, similar to your own cat medallion. You knew exactly what he was, but who he was, that was a complete mystery to you. You hadn’t come across many witchers in your lifetime, and only then it was in passing when on the road. You decide to play it safe and rather than asking the stranger, you approached the innkeeper with that charming smile of yours. 

“Ah, good afternoon, Elsa,” she said as you approached the counter.

“I wouldn’t say a good afternoon, ‘ad a troop of bandits wander through earlier on. Besides that, ‘ow can I ‘elp you?” The older woman asked, her voice tired and strained. 

“The chestnut mare outside, don’t suppose you have a new steed?”

“No, no, it’s been a long time since I’ve ridden. That there mare belongs to the white-haired fella, uh, Geralt? I think that’s what ‘e said.”

You dipped your head in thanks. Geralt, you’d never heard of the name. His white hair was odd, he certainly wasn’t elderly. Against your better judgement, you found your boots clacking quietly against the partial cobblestone flooring as you approached the wolf. 

“Odd seeing your kind here,” you stated rather boldly, however, felt all confidence leave your being as the other locked eyes with you.

He seemed annoyed that you had interrupted his gwent match, the other opponent taking the time to think through his next move. 

“I could say the same to you,” he said, his voice hoarse and gruff.  
Of course, he would know you were a witcher, why wouldn’t he?

“I was talking about a traveller,” you stated in recovery, “but as a witcher, too. Y/N, a pleasure.”

He grumbled lowly, turning back to his game as his opponent played his turn, “Geralt, what do you want?”

“Oh don’t be so dreary, you could lull a flock of harpies to sleep.” You rolled your eyes, it was like talking to a brick wall and you had only been talking for a matter of minutes, “I haven’t seen another witcher for a good few decades, thought I could tag along and see what you sink your sword into, wolf.”

Geralt glanced over, the light hitting your medallion in just the right spot where it glinted into his eye and in turn, he squinted. 

“A feline, I should’ve known.” The white-haired one set his cards down, indicating a forfeit as he rose from his seat and stepped away from it, “outside.”

“Oh, so demanding,” you teased, but obliged, giving a small wave to the innkeeper as you made your way out of the inn. 

He trudged his way behind you, the clinking of the swords strapped to his back almost music to your ears. Once outside, he walked towards the chestnut mare that stood so still and turned to you. 

“So, what are you here for?”

“I live here,” you stated rather flatly, “what are you here for?”

Geralt grunted, “witchers don’t settle down.”

“This one had no choice,” she scowled. 

“Your type is a disgrace.”

“My type? I would watch your words, wolf.”

“You have no moral compass.”

“Ah-ah, no, they have no moral compass.”

“And who’s ‘they’?”

“The felines with the fucked up mutagens, dumbass,” you snarled.

He was getting on your nerves, so quick to judge and make accusations. You weren’t like those other felines, they were feral and unpredictable. In a way, you were glad the majority of them were culled. The problem was, Geralt didn’t apologise nor give any inkling that he would take back what he would say. 

“Why are you here?” You asked once again. 

“I am passing through, thought I’d stop for a drink and ultimately a game of gwent until you disturbed me,” the wolf explained, his voice still hoarse. 

“Take me with you.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf? Take me with you, where ever you’re going,” you repeated, looking up at him.

“Now, why would I do that?”

“Because you don’t have a choice,” you said with a smirk, “if you won’t let me accompany you, I’ll follow you.”

“Why?”

“Why anything? I’m bored and I’ve been here far too long. Besides, gives me a reason to see how you wolves go about killing monsters.”

He sighed, shaking his head in annoyance. In his eyes, you were almost as annoying as Dandelion, but at least you could fend for yourself.

“Fine, as long as you stay quiet and out of my way, do you have a horse?” He asked, climbing into the saddle of the chestnut mare.

“Only the best.” 

You headed back towards your little abode, packing two sets of saddlebags with things that you would need. Your horse was out in the field, his front legs hobbled so he couldn’t get very far. After collecting him, giving him a brush and saddling him, you placed the two sets of saddlebags over his rump and attached them to the saddle. You made sure the girth was tightened appropriately before mounting H/N, extending her legs forward as you settled comfortably in the seat. Once you were sure you were ready, you met with Geralt at the end of the road that headed towards Novigrad, however, Geralt’s mare had a lot to say about the new company. She pinned her ears and lashed out at H/N, squealing in the process. 

“Well, isn’t she lovely,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “what’s her name?”

“Roach.”

“As in cockroach? I wouldn’t say that’s very creative,” you grumbled, moving H/N to the mare’s near side and keeping a good distance away to prevent the mare from biting your horse. 

It was going to be a long trip to Novigrad, and Geralt was far, far from pleased.


	2. Rotten Fish and Deep Mud

Three days was a long time, and it was made even longer by following one of the broodiest people you had ever met in your life. Geralt was grumpy and agitated almost 24/7, he always had his knickers in a knot about something whether it was how you rode or how you held yourself. It was always something with this man. You thought you were rather good at riding, you had partaken in a few small races around White Orchard over the years and won. The one time you had urged him to race, he bluntly declined only to state that it was ‘too rocky’ for the horses. Either way, you thought he was a whole tree in mud, rather than a stick. You were halfway to Oxenfurt, or that’s what it felt like at least. You hadn’t been that far north for a while, big cities weren’t exactly your thing. You were trekking through swampland, the smell burning your nose hairs and giving you goosebumps every other minute. You could hear H/N’s hooves squelching in the mud below you, the mud reaching just under his knee. You made a mental note to make sure that wherever you stopped, you would wash his legs down to lessen the risk of mud fever*. The last thing you need would be a lame horse and having to walk beside Geralt and his equally moody mare. He called his area Crookback Bog, you weren’t entirely sure why but you were more than certain that you wanted to leave the area as soon as possible. 

In the distance, you could hear the groans and wails of drowners and waterhags that hadn’t noticed your existence or didn’t care. You figured it was the former. They were such ugly monsters, but that was all necrophages. Barely alive monsters that saw you and thought yum. You never understood how or whether they had thoughts because if they did surely they would choose something better to do than just sulking around waterways. Over the years, you have found that they are weak to fire, to Igni was always handy in dealing damage to those overgrown sea slugs. 

As you stared out into the distance where you thought a pack of them might be, you felt your horse come to a sudden halt. You frown, look in front of you and see nothing. You then look slightly down and an exasperated sigh left your being. A puddle. You had been walking through slosh for almost a day now and he decides to spook over a small puddle. 

“Really? Really?! Oh get on, you sod,” you growl, taking the reins into your hands and sitting up properly in the seat of the saddle, giving your legs a squeeze and clicking your tongue. 

H/N hesitated, swinging his hind end from the left to the right indecisively. He held his chin close to his chest, his front legs staggering slightly forward. That was ridiculous. You had owned this horse for years, you had gone monster-hunting together and this is what he was scared of in a bog riddled with drowners and hags? What an absolute joke. After several attempts to get him around or through the puddle, you give up and give him a much-needed kick. This snapped H/N out of his fear-ridden state and he launched himself over the puddle, but in turn, stumbled into the mud in front. You on the other hand, whilst trying your best to stay in the saddle. As he jumped unexpectedly, you were launched out of the saddle, falling right into his neck and hitting your nose in the process. It certainly wasn’t your most perfect jump, but you had stayed in the saddle and mud-free nonetheless. The same couldn’t have been said for your horse. Mud up to his chest and in his muzzle. Just grand.

Geralt had stopped when he noticed you were no longer following, watching the whole scenario unfold with your unwilling mount. He had turned Roach around, who threw her head up when H/N lept forward. A groan left the wolf’s throat as he watched your horse finally settle itself. 

“Done fooling around?” He questioned, looking your now filthy horse over. 

You scoffed, shaking your head, “oh you’re funny, really you are. Just because you have a dead broke, bitch of a mare does not give you the right to tell me that I’m fooling around.”

You recomposed yourself, adjusting your position in the saddle and squeezing your horse forward, who happily complied. A complete turnaround from the scaredy-cat who didn’t want to walk through a puddle just moments before. You caught up to Geralt, using H/N to shove him out of the way which caused Roach to attempt to bite your gelding, which in turn he kicked out at her. 

“Are we going to have a problem?” Geralt growled, clicking his tongue and urging Roach forward into a walk. 

“Well, we are if you make the wild claim that my issues are the equivalent to fooling around.”

And with that, the pair of you continued down the muddy road. That was the most words exchanged since the little trip began, it was amazing that Geralt could say more than a few words. But when he did pipe up, it always seemed to be an insult towards you.

It was only half a kilometre down the road until your horse stopped yet again. Based off of the previous scenario, you look down towards his hooves but found that there weren’t any puddles. All you knew is that he wasn’t going anywhere. Looking around, you found that Roach too was frozen in place and it wasn’t until you heard the desperate screeches and smelt the scent of rotting fish that you figured out why. You had been spotted. 

A trio of drowners hobbled towards you, hissing and snarling. So, you reacted accordingly, quickly dismounting and slapping your horse’s hindquarters, of which it spooked him and he sprinted off. You drew your sword, the sound of the silver grazing against the leather sheath flooding your ears before you focus on the hideous creatures that had surrounded you. You glanced to Geralt to see that he had done the same, however, his approach was much more clunky and heavy. One of the drowners had burrowed, so you focused on the one closest to you all the while being cautious that the one underground could easily spring up behind you. You crinkled your nose, the stench the creatures emitted made you want to hurl but alas, there was no time for that. Stepping forward, you sliced at the drowner’s arms, with such precision that you sliced that main artery of its arm. You spun to avoid the creature as it ploughed forward, the drowner looking around in confusion before it once again laid its eyes upon you and charged towards you. You stepped back - getting ready to cast Igni - however, you stumbled over a fallen branch, the drowner landing a clawed slash to your sternum. You hissed in pain, it was only superficial but it hurt nonetheless. In retaliation, you sliced at the creature, your sword causing a deep laceration to its chest and within seconds of landing the blow, you cast Igni. The drowner was set aflame, wailing and whining as the fire burnt away at its slimy flesh. Eventually, it dropped to the ground.

You whipped around, your attention turning to Geralt for a brief second. He was taking care of the other drowner, his hits having no precision but dealing the most damage possible. He was heavy-handed, his body moving in an unconventional way. But it worked, and that’s all that mattered. Your attention was pulled away as the last of the drowners burst out from the ground. They had misjudged your whereabouts, as they sprung up to the right of you rather than from behind. Meanwhile, Geralt had killed the drowner he was fighting, and so turned to assist you. 

You dodged every move the drowner threw at you, slashing at the back of its knee and using Aard to shove it back. The white wolf stepped forward and stabbed through its neck, yanking the sword out from the side and partially decapitating it before you finished the job, slicing the last strands of flesh, tendon and muscle that held the head together. Geralt’s breathing was slightly laboured, whereas yours was nothing but a light pant. The difference in training was clear, but both were effective in monster killing. 

“You did good,” the other stated, sliding his sheath into his sword. 

You snorted, more out of shock than anything. He sounded so odd giving a compliment like it was forced. Hell, it probably was, he doesn’t seem to be the type to openly give people compliments. 

“Only naturally,” you said with a smirk, “but you did well, it’s interesting watching a wolf fight.”

You stepped over to the drowner that was just killed, pulling out a small dagger and slicing off its tongue. He grunted, whistling for Roach.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” He asked, watching as you crack open the creature’s skull and taking its brain. 

“You were rushed, choppy and heavy-handed. You were trained to put in as much brute force as possible. You didn’t care what or how you hit, as long as it hurt,” you explained, cradling the brain and tongue in one hand, sliding your knife away and whistling for H/N, who answered with a nicker before trotting over to you. 

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” he grumbled, climbing into Roach’s saddle once she approached.

“No,” you started, opening one of the saddlebags once H/N was standing quietly, pulling out a hessian wrap and placing the brain and tongue in before folding the cloth around the materials and placing them snuggly in the bag, “it just shows your technique is unrefined, I’m sure I could assist in such teachings.”

You were rather smug, you had him doubting whether he was good enough or not. You mounted your horse, and it wasn’t until then that you remember the claw lacerations to your chest. You hiss and go to clutch your chest, but the contact from your fingers cause the wounds to sting even more. You remove the straps that held the sheaths of your swords and place them over your lap, removing the top piece of your armour and unbuttoning your shirt. You never wore heavy armours, they were clunky and proved to be difficult to maneuver in. So whilst the armour your wore wasn’t as effective as it should be, it allowed your hits to be as precise and as damaging as possible. You studied the lacerations, gently pulling down on the unharmed skin and snarling as the wounds were pulled. You reached back into one of the saddlebags and pulled out a tonic. It wouldn’t heal it right away, but it would numb the wounds until you reached an established town. 

“That looks pretty nasty,” Geralt said, glancing over at you.

“Stating the obvious are we?” You snickered, shaking your head, “it’s fine, it's not deep so the scars will be faint. I just want to wash it out to make sure there’s nothing in it,” your voice was muffled as you pour the tonic over the wounds, wincing slightly. It dampened your shirt and pants, but they needed to be washed anyway. When left, drowner blood stank.

He nodded, “We shouldn’t be too far from Crow’s Perch, do you think you can hold on until there?”

Geralt? Showing concern? You would laugh did it not hurt when breathing. You gave a simple nod, “I don’t have much of a choice,” you said with a soft chuckle. The tonic didn’t take long to take effect and once it did, you were fine to ride the rest of the way at a trot and slow canter. 

The rest of the way to Crow’s Perch was quiet, only the sounds of hooves squelching in mush changing to hard hoof beats on a dirt road. You were alright for the most part, climbing down from the saddle as you arrived at the enclosed town. You walked through the town, H/N’s reins in hand before you hitched him to a log and walked into the shopkeep. You needed something to get you through until you reached Oxenfurt. Looking around the small business, you collect a few bandages and a bunch of celandines. You approach the shopkeeper, placing the things on the counter.

“That’ll be ten crowns,” the woman stated.

You scowled. What a waste of money. But it was either that or you would have a very painful trip to Oxenfurt. You begrudgingly toss ten crowns onto the countertop and collect your things, muttering a thank you before walking back outside. 

“Geralt, do you have any dwarven spirit?”  
“Why?”

“I’m out of potions, I just want to brew one quickly. It’ll make the trip to Oxenfurt more comfortable.”

He nodded, going through his saddlebags and eventually pulling out the small vial. He handed it to you before you settled down next to H/N on the dirt path after pulling out a small steel bowl, a bottle of mead and the drowner brain you harvested earlier. It didn’t take you long to make the nasty smelling concoction, downing its contents in one go. Your entire being shuddered, your nose screwing up as you felt the foul liquid go down your throat. You gave the bowl a rinse out and tucked it back into the saddlebag, along with the empty vial and the remaining stalks of celandine. You pulled yourself into the saddle after unhitching your horse from the log and disembarked with Geralt towards Oxenfurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *a skin disease brought upon by prolonged exposure to wet and muddy conditions. Often causes swelling and heat in the fetlock and pastern area. The skin becomes raw with scabs and wounds and ultimately leads to lameness. 
> 
> I haven't really written a combat scene before, so my apologies on that behalf I know its certainly not the best it could be.


	3. A Frog That Croaks and a Tiger Who Roars

Having left Crow’s Nest with a slowly healing wound, it made for an uncomfortable ride. Not only that, you were exhausted. Shortly after leaving the fortified town, you had managed to tie a rope from H/N’s bit to the cantle of Roach’s saddle. The mare seemed to allow it, her temper and attitude calming after your gelding kicked out at her. By doing this, you allowed yourself to slump forward in the saddle, laying your arms either side of your horse’s neck, your head on his crest and letting yourself drift into a light sleep. It felt like it was short-lived. As the pair of you rode by a small farming town, you awoke to hear a distressed male voice. It was oddly high pitched, you assumed it came from a younger boy. You sat up in the saddle, you eyes burning as they readjusted to the sun. You stretched out, feeling your spine pop and you rolled your shoulders back. Geralt was still leading you on, however coming to a halt once he had found the source of the racket. And it wasn’t a young boy, it was a grown man. Lute cradled delicately in hand, he was being bombarded by a small group of townspeople who seemed to be demanding a ballad of a sort. You were too asleep still to try and figure out what they were saying, but you follow Geralt as you both slid out of the saddle. 

“So, who is this lad? Do you know him?” You ask, blinking a few times are your eyes finally adjust. 

“You can say that,” the wolf merely stated, approaching the ruckus. 

“Ah Geralt! What brilliant timing you have!” The distressed man piped up, stretching his neck to look over the group that somewhat surrounded him, “tell them, tell them that the Lion cub of Cintra is just a myth!”

The witcher rolled his eyes, “what the bard speaks its true, its nothing more than a legend, a myth. Leave him alone.”

“We want to hear it from him!”

“That’s why we’re here! We don’t care if its myth!”

You shook your head, sighing softly as you watched Geralt reach forward and yank the young man away from the group.

“He won’t be singing anything to you,” he scowled, dragging the man over to Roach before mounting her.

You followed suit, climbing back into H/N’s saddle. Geralt nudged Roach forward and once you were moving, you trotted up to Roach and untied the rope from her saddle and then from H/N’s bit, tucking it into one of the saddlebags. 

“So, who are you?” You asked, looking down at the brunette who walked alongside Roach as he looked around warily. 

“I might ask you the same, I haven’t seen you before.” He looked back at you, “oh, oooooh no, Geralt, Geralt she’s a witcher!”

The white wolf half grumbled and half hummed in acknowledgement, you just holding a playful smirk as you watch him slowly lose his mind. 

“Y/N, I would say it’s nice to meet you but you’re awfully loud,” you say.

“I don’t know if I want you to know my name.”

“Oh, I don’t bite, not men at least.”

“That never-ending music box is Dandelion, an acquaintance of mine,” Geralt grumbled, continuing on his way out of the small town. You followed. 

“Acquaintance? Oh how you wound me so,” he pouted, clutching his lute to his chest. 

“Dandelion? Like the weed?” You asked with a chuckle, gathering your reins in one hand and trotting H/N on to ride on the other side of the bard, “judging by Geralt’s harshness towards you, you’re also hard to rid of, just like a weed.”

“I’m not a damn weed! Geralt, tell her I’m not a weed.”

The wolf didn’t say a word, just shaking his head and continuing to ride on towards Oxenfurt. 

The trip there wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t particularly hard. You ran into a few nekkers on the way, of which you and Geralt took care of rather easily. Dandelion was amazed at your skills, Geralt allowing him to sit behind Roach’s saddle. Whilst his company was questionable, his music skills were grand and his singing wasn’t horrible. He made the trip a little easier, ridding of the deafening silence that the wilderness of the Northern Realms provided. You only stopped over once, but due to Geralt constantly kicking Dandelion off from Roach you had to stop every so often to wait for him to catch up. Once the three of you reached Oxenfurt, the first stopover was at the local inn. You needed a drink and some decent food. You weren’t going to die without it, but it was much needed. Yourself and Geralt dismounted your horses and hitched them to a pole, before walking in with Dandelion. You tried to get off as much mud from your boots as possible before stepping in and once you did, you found yourself staring.

There before you, stood a woman. Power radiated off of her, you hadn’t even said a word to her, not only that she was a fair way away from where the three of you stood. The light seemed to shine on her, blurring out every other patron in the inn. Her hair was as dark as night, the soft warm lighting creating a warm glow, accenting the curls that framed her face. She was clad mostly in black velvet, adorned with silver embellishments and white accents, a cloak hugged her shoulders in a similar colour scheme to the rest of her outfit. As the three of you wandered in, most of the patrons turned to look at you, including the woman. That was when you saw her eyes, they were unusual but beautiful nonetheless. They were a fearsome violet that had the power to make any man or woman cower before them. The way she sat and held herself, it was clear she thought she was the most powerful being in the room. Of course, there was a real possibility that she was, however, you didn’t know what she was capable of. 

You were snapped out of your little dazed state as Geralt and Dandelion started walking forward, of which you hastily followed. Gods you hoped she didn’t catch you staring, were you even staring? You knew it was rude, but you weren’t entirely sure if you were. Either way, if she says something, you were just staring at the painting behind her and try and fake interest in it, yeah, that would work. You hadn’t even noticed that you were headed in exactly her direction. You could feel the stares of other patrons as the three of you walked through. You had gotten used to the stares, but it still made you slightly uncomfortable. It was probably because two witchers were less than four foot apart and one of them was a woman. You let out a slight snarl and the patrons who saw quickly turned to pay mind to their own business. 

Geralt lead you to the rounded table the woman sat at, the woman looking up to look at him. 

“Ah Geralt, you should’ve informed me that we were to meet, else I might’ve freshened up,” the woman spoke. Her voice was smooth, yet laced with subtle thorns. You could only imagine what her voice was like when she was enraged. She smelt of lilac and gooseberries, it was rather nice. 

“It wasn’t intentional,” the white wolf grumbled, even in the presence of this goddess of a woman his voice was still rough and hoarse. 

“Clearly,” she said with a playful roll of her eyes, “I see you brought company, Dandelion and, oh, I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” The woman’s eyes landed on you. 

You cleared your throat. You had talked to many gorgeous damsels, why was this one any different?

“Y/N, and pardon my rudeness, but I don’t know you,” you stated, rather awkwardly. 

“No no, it was rude of Geralt to not mention me. A pleasure to meet you, Y/N, you can call me Yennefer,” she stated.

You had a name to the face, a beautiful name for a beautiful face. But it seemed she had something with Geralt, you could sense something. Possibly tension, what kind? You weren’t quite sure. At this point, Dandelion has wandered his way over to the bar, straying from the ‘group’, if you could call it one. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” you stated, with as much confidence as you could muster. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to keep you composed. 

“Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’re a witcher. Or, someone managed to give a woman the eyes of one. I’m sure I would’ve at least seen you when visiting Kaer Morhen,” Yennefer stated, gesturing for the two of you to sit down. Geralt did, so you followed suit, pulling out the chair with a startling screech against the wooden flooring. You plopped yourself into the seat, sitting anything but ladylike as you hunched forward to avoid your swords from hitting the back of the chair. 

You shook your head, your eyes catching Dandelion as he walked around the table and plonked himself next to you, “I wasn’t trained at Kaer Morhen, I was trained at the Stygga Citadel, the school of the cat,” you explained.

“Wasn’t there a siege?” The raven-haired woman asked as a frown ever so slightly tugged at her features. 

“For all the right reasons,” you said, reaching over to one of the tankards that were in front of Dandelion, hooking your fingers around the handle and picking it up, “they knew what they did, they knew they would need to pay for what they had done.”

“If that’s the case, why are you still here? You say that they died for all the right reasons, does that not mean that you should’ve died also?”

The sorceress spoke as you were taking a sip of the oddly fruity alcohol that filled the tankard in your grasp. You swallow, setting the tankard down before speaking, “whilst yes if I was like them. I wasn’t part of the mixed up mutagen witchers, I also don’t take human contracts like other felines. I don’t see the point in it, because unlike monsters, there will always be someone to contradict your actions,” you finish, raising the tankard back up to your lips. 

“You know, Yennefer,” Dandelion spoke up. If you rolled your eyes any further your optic nerve just may snap. “I can wholeheartedly say, she may be just that little bit better than Geralt. I have never seen two witchers together, save for perhaps the troop of Kaer Morhen. They fight well, their opposites complement each other.”

You screw up your nose, placing the tankard down and looking towards the bard, “you say that as if I’m in love with him.”

“Are you not?” He asked, truly thinking that’s what all of it was. By gods he was stupid.

“Don’t be daft, I love his sword, the metal kind before you get any ideas,” you snarled at him, glaring daggers at him as he raised his hands in front of him in defence. 

“Alright, down kitty.”

You shook your head, glancing over at Yennefer who seemed to be amused by the situation, sporting the slightest of playful smirks. 

“Oh, find this amusing, do you?” You asked rather abruptly. It wasn’t on purpose, you were embarrassed truth be told and the fact that the sorceress found it amusing made the situation all the worse. 

“Why yes, I do. You remind me so much of Geralt and I’ve known you for less than an hour. I find it rather amusing that someone can match his level of grumpiness.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m nothing like Geralt, I don’t brood until the chickens become envious.”

A very faint but somehow deep chuckle left her lips before she turned her attention to Geralt, “so, what brings you to Oxenfurt of all places?” the woman asked.

You were grateful the attention was taken from you, indulging yourself in what was left in the tankard all the while copping glances of the sorceress. 

“I was heading to Novigrad,” he said plainly, clearly not interesting in going into detail until Yennefer seemed to give him a look, of which he sighed at. “I picked up a stray cat in White Orchard after leaving Vizima, I was only there to take a break but low and behold. Found Dandelion on the way here, he was being harassed for the ballad of the Lion Cub of Cintra.”

“And I’ve been asked to deliver a lecture over at the university,” the bard chimed in, “I needed a bodyguard and Geralt was the next best thing.”

“I’m more than sure he was happy to oblige,” she said with a hum, “well, why don’t you stay awhile? It’s been quite a long time since I last saw the two of you and with your little kitten, I’m sure it wouldn’t be boring.”

The name shot heat right to your face, your cheeks taking on a tinge of red as you felt the heat escaping from your ears. You didn’t know if you were annoyed by it, or whether you liked it.

“Don’t call me kitten,” you said as cooly as possible. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.”


End file.
